Once We Were Young
by Darth Wannabe
Summary: Sansa returns to Winterfell after being summoned by her once bastard brother. Assumes R L J.


**Title: **Once We Were Young

**Author: **Darth Wannabe

**Disclaimer: **All of the following characters belong to George R.R. Martin. I am receiving no profit from any of this. This is just for people's enjoyment.

**Summary**: Sansa returns to Winterfell after being summoned by her once bastard brother. Assumes R + L = J.

**Note**: For those of you who have been waiting for an update on _Oath Keeper_, I have not forgotten about it! But it might be quite a bit of time before I add another chapter. I apologize for the long delay.

They arrived at Winterfell near dusk, a light spring snow coating their furs. _Winter has past, yet it seems colder to me now than it did then._ Sansa's teeth were clenched, and her fingers ached from their tight grip on the reins. She tried to imagine the warmth of a roaring fire. Yet still, her body persisted in shivering, a sure sign to the men guarding her that she no longer belonged to the north. _What will Jon think of me now?_

_You cannot call him Jon, _she scolded herself again. _He is a prince now. You mustn't forget._

Her dreams had been unsettling as of late, ever since she had received the summons to go north. For many nights, she had fretted over this moment of seeing him again, what she would say to him, why he had asked for her.

_Let it not be what I suspect._ She longed to see Winterfell, but her longing was for what was gone, not for the ruins of what remained. _The past is gone. I do not want to carry it with me any longer. I do not want to remember._

Before she had left King's Landing, she had spoken of her fears to Arya – her little sister who seemed to carry her own set of dark secrets. Neither of them had spoken much of the years of separation, the pain still too recent to share, but in this matter, Arya was the only one who could possibly understand Sansa's reluctance to meet their brother turned cousin.

"_It is you who should be going north,"_ Sansa had told her as they snuggled under her bed's heavy covers. _"You are the sister whom he has missed."_

In the dim light, she had been unable to see Arya's face. _"He requested my presence."_

The nonchalant confession had shocked Sansa into silence for a moment. _"You are refusing a royal command?"_ she had finally asked.

"_He _requested_, not _commanded_," _her sister had replied stubbornly in a manner reminiscent of her past self. _"Besides," _her voice became almost a whisper, _"the summons was for Arya Stark, not me. I am not of the north."_

"_And I am?" _Sansa had asked in return but had received no response. When she had awoken the next day, Arya was gone.

As she entered the courtyard, a shadow flew overhead, briefly blocking the sun. _Viserion_, she remembered the white dragon was called as her gaze glanced upwards. Then, her eyes shifted down, and she felt her breath catch in her throat at the face that stared at her. _Father_, she wanted to say, but the hair was not yet lined with gray; the brow, not yet wrinkled by age. And her father was dead, murdered by her treacherous mouth.

Her brother – _cousin –_ seemed surprised by her appearance as well. His eyes lingered on her face before he stepped forward to offer her a hand to dismount. "Lady Sansa," he greeted her, his voice much deeper than she remembered.

Once settled on the ground, she dropped into a deep curtsy. "My prince." Her voice did not shake, but her uncertainty made her tone less warm than intended. As he motioned for her to rise, she noticed that his face had hardened slightly and once again felt remorse for all the cruel words, which she had spoken to him in the past. _I was such a little fool, then._

He entwined her arm with his. "Was your travel safe?" he asked, eyes staring forward as they began to walk towards the keep.

"Very much so. The queen's men guarded me well."

"Good." Jon directed her towards a young man, only a few years older than herself. Her gaze flittered across his face and settled on the black patch covering his left eye. A horrendous scar peaked over the top of it and spanned across his left cheek. Despite this, she had to admit that he was handsome, with his dark eyes and even darker hair. It curled around his cheeks to rest on his shoulders. "This is my steward—"

"Mama?" The cry interrupted him and caused them both to stare at a little boy struggling in the arms of a wild-looking woman. His tangled mop of russet hair was darker than Sansa's, but she recognized him all the same.

"Rickon!" She knelt on the ground and held open her arms.

At a nod from Jon, the woman let her youngest brother run to her. His body slammed into her own, causing her to lose her balance and fall backwards onto her cloak, but she did not care as his grubby hands grasped her gown and his head burrowed into her bosom. "Rickon, Rickon, Rickon," she kept repeating, too overwhelmed by how wonderful it was to say his name to think of anything else.

He was mumbling words as well, and it took her muddled thoughts a moment to understand them. "Mama, I missed you." A sob broke from her mouth then, and she raised a hand to muffle any others, not wishing to scare him.

He noticed the tears running down her face though. One tiny finger poked her cheek and came away wet. "Why are you sad?" His chin trembled.

Jon knelt beside them then and gently drew Rickon into his arms. "Mama is sad," her little brother said again – confusion, anger, and hurt were wrapped in the words.

"Your mama is dead, Rickon," Jon said, his tone gentle. "This is your sister, Sansa. I told you she was coming to see you, and now, here she is. Remember?"

"Sansa," the little boy repeated, his brow creasing. "But I want mama! Why can mama not come home?" To Sansa's shock, he began to pummel Jon with his tiny fists.

Jon took the onslaught in silence and rose with the boy in his arms. The wild-woman, whom Sansa determined must be her brother's caretaker, stepped forward. Jon passed the boy to her. Rickon calmed immediately, his little body heaving from exertion. Jon rested his hand on top of her brother's head while murmuring to the wild-woman. The woman nodded, turned, and walked into the keep.

_No, not yet. I have only just seen him. _Panic arose in her. She struggled to rise.

Jon turned to her and reached out a hand. "I apologize for that. I should have expected the sight of you to be a shock for him." He helped her stand. She stumbled slightly and had to grasp his doublet to keep from falling. "Are you well?"

_My body is sore from riding all day, my limbs are frozen, and the brother I long to be with does not truly remember me. _She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and wiped away the tear streaks frozen on her cheeks with the back of her hand.

Jon frowned. "Glover, Umber, Manderly, and several lords of the mountain clans are waiting in the hall to greet you, but you should rest first after your long journey. Satin!" He gestured at the dark-haired man. "Show Lady Sansa her chambers."

"No!" she interrupted. Blood rushed to her face as both men stared at her. "I mean," she stammered at the ground, "my prince is kind, but I would prefer to speak with them now."

That was a lie, of course. She simply knew that rest would not be possible in a castle full of ghosts. Her eyes rose to meet Jon's gaze. She expected to find anger and was surprised to see that he was almost smiling. "I had forgotten how stubborn you Starks could be," he replied.

_You Starks_. The words echoed in her mind. _You were never really one of us, were you, Jon Snow? _Only now did she notice the silver dragon embroidered across the prince's black doublet. _Prince Jon of House Targaryen, nephew of the queen. _The title strangely fit the man that her bastard brother had become.

He escorted her to the hall where a group of rugged men sat along a table, scoffing ale and trading japes. They grew silent upon her and Jon's entrance and rose respectfully. She listened carefully as Jon introduced her to each one. The names and sigils were familiar; the faces were not. Still, they spoke kindly of her father and mother and swore that their allegiance was both to the crown and to House Stark. Sansa replied courteously to each, commending one for his bravery, congratulating another for a son recently born. Her smile did not waver.

"Your mother would be proud," Jon murmured as he led her away. "I would not have known how tired you were if not for the grip of your fingers on my arm."

She glanced down, horrified. Her fingers were clenched tightly around his forearm. "Did I bruise you?"

She tried to slide her hand away, but he reached his other hand over to stop her. "I have suffered much worse."

_So I have heard_. She wondered if she would ever have the courage to ask him. "How fares Bran? I had hoped that he would be here to greet me."

"He remains at the Wall," Jon replied after a short pause. "I would like for you to see him soon, but," his grey eyes met her blue ones, "he is much changed, Sansa."

_As are we all. _She did not voice her thought aloud. Something about Jon's expression scared her, as though what she would find at the Wall would not be pleasant. "Arya did not come."

"I thought she might not."

"She, too, has changed much."

Jon's gaze was somber. "I know." At Sansa's startled expression, he elaborated. "She came to me at the end of the war and found me beyond the Wall. After the Others were defeated, I asked her to find you and watch over you." His eyes wandered over her face. "She did not tell you," he concluded.

"No." She wondered what else her sister had shared with him and not with her. "You needn't have worried. The Hand has always been very kind to me."

Jon nodded. "Tyrion is a good man. And what did you think of Daenerys?"

"I have only spoken to her twice. She is very beautiful."

"Did she mention why I summoned you here?" He turned to face her.

Her heart began to beat harder. _I wondered. _"No, my prince." It occurred to her suddenly that they were alone. Trees, bare and blackened, rose like sentinels around them.

"Sansa," he began and then hesitated.

"Where are we?" The words burst from her lips, propelled by some unfathomable sense of doom.

"The godswood. Most of it burned when Winterfell was taken." He walked over to a blackened trunk and rested his hand against it. Ash drifted to the ground. "I come here to be alone."

"To pray?" she whispered.

He gave a sharp nod. "Yes."

"Do you think the gods hear you?"

He smiled grimly. "Yes, but whether they choose to act is another matter." His eyes met hers. "I come here to be reminded. Even in the midst of great evil and destruction, life continues." He knelt to the ground and swept aside a pile of debris. Below was a tiny bud, its green leaves a stark contrast amongst the ashes from which it arose.

She knelt beside him. "It's so small."

"It is only the beginning. It will continue to grow long after we are gone."

Tears fell from her eyes and slid down her cheeks. She ducked her head so that he could not see.

"Sansa?"

She blushed. "I had a foolish thought."

"I have those too occasionally."

She peeked at him but could not tell if he was mocking her or not. "I once thought that my life would be just like in the songs. I would marry a prince, and he would love me. And we would have beautiful children." She hugged her knees tightly. "But life is not a song. The songs are all lies." She was rambling now, the words pouring from her mouth, faster and faster. "Princes can be monsters and knights break their vows. Life is not a song. But it can be a seed. A small seed trying to survive, even in the worst conditions. Why do we sing about silly maids that lived hundreds of years ago? And about love that never lasts? And, and." She took a deep breath. "I just wish that there was a song about a seed."

He was silent, mulling over her words. She felt ashamed. "It was a foolish thought. Utterly stupid."

"I like hearing your thoughts," he replied, his tone brooking no argument. Once again, she was reminded of father. "We never spoke much when we were children."

"Because of me," she burst out. "I was such a fool, then. I really am sorry, Jon." Her hands flew to her mouth in horror. "My prince. I'm sorry, I meant—"

"You may call me Jon, Sansa." He grasped her hands and helped her rise. "I brought you here so that we might speak freely to one another."

"About what?" she asked hesitantly.

His hands tightened on hers. "I never wanted Winterfell, Sansa," he began, his gaze fixed on her yet distant. "By all rights, it belongs to Bran. Or Rickon."

_The sons of Eddard Stark_, she imagined him thinking. "Robb decreed that it pass to you," she reminded him softly. "You are the one that the north rallied to. You are the one that the queen appointed to be Warden of the North."

Little specks of snow drifted from above – their icy touch whispered across her skin before melting.

"I still think of him as my father," Jon continued softly.

For a moment, she was tempted to believe that this was her sole purpose for being here. To release him from this burden of guilt. _I am the one that betrayed him, Jon, not you. _"He knew the truth, yet he loved you as much as a trueborn son," she said.

"And I have repaid his love by claiming the birthright belonging to his sons." He took a deep breath. She could see his gathering determination and braced herself for his next words. "But I need not take it from his grandsons."

"Arya," the word slipped from stiff lips and settled in the silence between them.

Jon shook his head. "Sansa, you are the eldest of your father's remaining children. If Daenerys could inherit her father's throne before her nephew, then you could also be your father's heir." He sighed. "Besides, Arya…I could never see her as anything other than my little sister."

She wanted to laugh. Or cry. _I never loved you as a sister, but you ask me to love you as a _wife_?_ "You are a Targaryen."

"But I was not raised as one."

_Neither was Lord Tyrion, yet he and the queen have no qualms about their affair. _"You deserve someone better, Jon," she said bluntly and was relieved that her voice did not shake.

"And who do you feel is more fit to be my wife than you?" he replied calmly.

_I do not want to speak of this. To remember. _She tugged her hands away from his clasp. _You must make him understand. You can never be what he desires_. She turned away. She could not say what needed to be said while staring at him. "I have been with a man before."

"I have been with other women." To her dismay, he sounded relieved by her confession.

"What I am about to say – it is difficult for me to tell you. I have told no one." She waited for a response but heard only silence. _Say it and be done_. "I didn't want to, to do what he asked." Her voice trembled. "But he didn't listen. To me." _He didn't care. He called me Sweetling. He promised to take me home. _She did not want to remember. _He haunts me enough in my dreams_.

Dried leaves crunched behind her. She could sense him nearing and flinched away. He stopped.

"Sansa." His voice was calm, but she could hear the strain in it, the anger lurking beneath. "Who did this?"

_No, no, no._ Her head jerked from side to side. _His breath smelled like mint. And when he kissed my neck, his beard tickled._

"Sansa, tell me." His teeth were clenched. "I command you to tell me."

_So many names. Littlefinger, Master of Coin, mother's childhood friend, Lord Protector of the Eyrie, the father of Alayne Stone. _"Petyr Baelish," she whispered.

Jon loosed a string of curses. She knew why. Petyr had fled to the east before the fighting had reached the Eyrie. No one had heard any news of him since then.

"Sansa, I swear to you that if he still lives I will not rest until he is dead. If not by my hand then by another's," Jon said gravely.

She shrugged. _His death will change nothing._

One of Jon's hands rested against her shoulder. "Sansa, what he did to you was not your fault."

The fur below her chin was wet. She was crying. _For how long have I been crying?_ She could not remember. From far away, she could hear a shaking voice murmur, "I could have fought harder. Arya would never have allowed him to, to."

"Sansa." His voice was low and gentle.

It made her angry. _He still doesn't see! He doesn't understand! _"When he first touched me, I was disgusted. But he kept – and I, I began to like it. I should have stopped him, but I _liked_ it."

She remembered Petyr saying that it would be better with him than with Harry. _He lied. It still hurt. _

Jon was silent beside her. _Your guilt is nothing compared to mine. _She could not look at him. She could barely stand. "I can return to King's Landing in the morning. I just need one night to rest, and then you need never speak with me—"

Jon pulled her against his chest. "You are a Stark, Sansa. If you wish to return to King's Landing, then I will not stop you. But to me, you will always belong here."

"But." It was difficult to speak with him holding her so tightly. _If I try to move, he might let me go_. She realizing that she did not want him to let go. "You said, you want—"

"I still want you as my wife." Her body stilled completely at his words. "But we do not need to marry now. I could arrange a betrothal. We could come to know each other better." He sighed. "I have scars, too, Sansa. I sleep with a candle beside me because I cannot bear the darkness. I both long for the past and yet despise it. I do not want to forget, but it hurts too much to remember."

"I know," she murmured.

"Do you remember what Father used to say? The lone wolf dies but the pack survives."

_Arya, Rickon, Bran, Robb. _"We survived, but our pack is gone."

"The old pack is no more. But we could be the beginning of a new one."

The snow was falling harder now. The flakes caught in their hair and coated the fur along their cloaks but still they stood, entwined, their breath frosting in the icy air.

**THE END**


End file.
